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A BOY'S WILL 



A BOY'S WILL 



BY 



ROBERT FROST 



AUTHOR OF "NORTH OF BOSTON 1 




NEW YORK 
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
1915 



i 



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<V 



TO 

E. M. F. 



CONTENTS 

PART I 

PAGE 

INTO MY OWN ii 

The youth is persuaded that he will be rather 
more than less himself for having forsworn 
the world. 

GHOST HOUSE 12 

He is happy in society of his choosing. 

MY NOVEMBER GUEST 14 

He is in love with being misunderstood. 

LOVE AND A QUESTION 15 

He is in doubt whether to admit real trouble 
to a place beside the hearth with love. 

A LATE WALK 17 

He courts the autumnal mood. 

STARS 18 

There is no oversight of human affairs. 

STORM FEAR 19 

He is afraid of his own isolation. 

WIND AND WINDOW FLOWER ... 20 
Out of the winter things he fashions a story 
of modern love. 

TO THE THAWING WIND 22 

He calls on change through the violence of the 
elements. 

vii 



via CONTENTS 

A PRAYER IN SPRING 23 

He discovers that the greatness of love lies not 
in forward-looking thoughts; 

FLOWER-GATHERING 24 

nor yet in any spur it may be to ambition. 

ROSE POGONIAS 25 

He is no dissenter from the ritualism of 
nature ; 

ASKING FOR ROSES 27 

nor from the ritualism of youth which is make- 
believe. 

• WAITING— Afield at Dusk 29 

He arrives at the turn of the year. 

IN A VALE 31 

Out of old longings he fashions a story. 

A DREAM PANG 33 

He is shown by a dream how really well it is 
with him. 

IN NEGLECT 34 

He is scornful of folk his scorn cannot reach. 

THE VANTAGE POINT 35 

And again scornful, but there is no one hurt. 

- MOWING 36 

He takes up life simply with the small tasks. 

GOING FOR WATER 37 



PART II 

REVELATION . . . . .... 39 

He resolves to become intelligible, at least to 
himself, since there is no help else; 



CONTENTS ix 

THE TRIAL BY EXISTENCE . . . .40 
and to know definitely what he thinks about 
the soul; 

IN EQUAL SACRIFICE 44 

about love; 

THE TUFT OF FLOWERS 47 

about fellowship; 

SPOILS OF THE DEAD 50 

about death; 

PAN WITH US 52 

about art (his own) ; 

THE DEMIURGE'S LAUGH 54 

about science. 



PART III 

NOW CLOSE THE WINDOWS ... . .55 
It is time to make an end of speaking. 

A LINE- STORM SONG 56 

It is the autumnal mood with a difference. 

OCTOBER . . 58 

He sees days slipping from him that were the 
best for what they were. 

MY BUTTERFLY 59 

There are things that can never be the same. 

RELUCTANCE 62 

\ 



A BOY'S WILL 

INTO MY OWN 

One of my wishes is that those dark trees, 
So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze, 
Were not, as 'twere, the merest mask of gloom, 
But stretched away unto the edge of doom. 

I should not be withheld but that some day 
Into their vastness I should steal away, 
Fearless of ever finding open land, 
Or highway where the slow wheel pours the 
sand. 

I do not see why I should e'er turn back, 
Or those should not set forth upon my track 
To overtake me, who should miss me here 
And long to know if still I held them dear. 

They would not find me changed from him 

they knew — 
Only more sure of all I thought was true. 
ii 



GHOST HOUSE 

I dwell in a lonely house I know 
That vanished many a summer ago, 
And left no trace but the cellar walls, 
And a cellar in which the daylight falls, 
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow. 



O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield 
The woods come back to the mowing field; 
The orchard tree has grown one copse 
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker 
chops ; 
The footpath down to the well is healed. 



I dwell with a strangely aching heart 
In that vanished abode there far apart 
On that disused and forgotten road 
That has no dust-bath now for the toad. 
Night comes ; the black bats tumble and dart ; 

12 



GHOST HOUSE 13 

The whippoorwill is coming to shout 
And hush and cluck and flutter about : 

I hear him begin far enough away 

Full many a time to say his say 
Before he arrives to say it out. 

It is under the small, dim, summer star, 
I know not who these mute folk are 
Who share the unlit place with me — • 
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree 
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar. 

They are tireless folk, but slow and sad, 
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad, — 
With none among them that ever sings, 
And yet, in view of how many things, 
As sweet companions as might be had. 



MY NOVEMBER GUEST 

My Sorrow, when she's here with me, 
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain 

Are beautiful as days can be; 

She loves the bare, the withered tree ; 
She walks the sodden pasture lane. 

Her pleasure will not let me stay. 

She talks and I am fain to list: 
She's glad the birds are gone away, 
She's glad her simple worsted grey 

Is silver now with clinging mist. 

The desolate, deserted trees, 

The faded earth, the heavy sky, 
The beauties she so truly sees, 
She thinks I have no eye for these, 
And vexes me for reason why. 

Not yesterday I learned to know 
The love of bare November days 

Before the coming of the snow, 

But it were vain to tell her so, 

And they are better for her praise. 



LOVE AND A QUESTION 

A stranger came to the door at eve, 

And he spoke the bridegroom fair. 
He bore a green-white stick in his hand, 

And, for all burden, care. 
He asked with the eyes more than the lips 

For a shelter for the night, 
And he turned and looked at the road afar 

Without a window light. 

The bridegroom came forth into the porch 

With ' Let us look at the sky, 
And question what of the night to be, 

Stranger, you and L' 
The woodbine leaves littered the yard, 

The woodbine berries were blue, 
Autumn, yes, winter was in the wind; 

' Stranger, I wish I knew.' 

Within, the bride in the dusk alone 
Bent over the open fire, 

15 



16 A BOY'S WILL 

Her face rose-red with the glowing coal 
And the thought of the heart's desire. 

The bridegroom looked at the weary road, 

Yet saw but her within, 
And wished her heart in a case of gold 

And pinned with a silver pin. 

The bridegroom thought it little to give 

A dole of bread, a purse, 
A heartfelt prayer for the poor of God, 

Or for the rich a curse ; 

But whether or not a man was asked 

To mar the love of two 
By harboring woe in the bridal house, 

The bridegroom wished he knew. 



A LATE WALK 

When I go up through the mowing field, 

The headless aftermath, 
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew, 

Half closes the garden path. 

And when I come to the garden ground, 

The whir of sober birds 
Up from the tangle of withered weeds 

Is sadder than any words. 

A tree beside the wall stands bare, 

But a leaf that lingered brown, 
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought, 

Comes softly rattling down. 

I end not far from my going forth 

By picking the faded blue 
Of the last remaining aster flower 

To carry again to you. 

17 



STARS 

How countlessly they congregate 
O'er our tumultuous snow, 

Which flows in shapes as tall as trees 
When wintry winds do blow ! — 

As if with keenness for our fate, 
Our faltering few steps on 

To white rest, and a place of rest 
Invisible at dawn, — 

And yet with neither love nor hate, 
Those stars like some snow-white 

Minerva's snow-white marble eyes 
Without the gift of sight 



18 



STORM FEAR 

When the wind works against us in the dark, 

And pelts with snow 

The lower chamber window on the east, 

And whispers with a sort of stifled bark, 

The beast, 

1 Come out ! Come out ! ' — 

It costs no inward struggle not to go, 

Ah, no ! 

I count our strength, 

Two and a child, 

Those of us not asleep subdued to mark 

How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length, — 

How drifts are piled, 

Dooryard and road ungraded, 

Till even the comforting barn grows far away 

And my heart owns a doubt 

Whether 'tis in us to arise with day 

And save ourselves unaided. 



19 



WIND AND WINDOW FLOWER 

Lovers, forget your love, 
And list to the love of these, 

She a window flower, 
And he a winter breeze. 

When the frosty window veil 
Was melted down at noon, 

And the caged yellow bird 
Hung over her in tune, 

He marked her through the pane, 
He could not help but mark, 

And only passed her by, 
To come again at dark. 

He was a winter wind, 

Concerned with ice and snow, 

Dead weeds and unmated birds, 
And little of love could know. 

20 



WIND AND WINDOW FLOWER 21 

But he sighed upon the sill, 

He gave the sash a shake, 
As witness all within 

Who lay that night awake. 

Perchance he half prevailed 

To win her for the flight 
From the firelit looking-glass 

And warm stove-window light. 

But the flower leaned aside 
And thought of naught to say, 

And morning found the breeze 
A hundred miles away. 



JO THE THAWING WIND 

Come with rain, O loud Southwester! 
Bring the singer, bring the nester; 
Give the buried flower a dream; 
Make the settled snow-bank steam ; 
Find the brown beneath the white; 
But whate'er you do to-night, 
Bathe my window, make it flow, 
Melt it as the ices go; 
Melt the glass and leave the sticks 
Like a hermit's crucifix ; 
Burst into my narrow stall; 
Swing the picture on the wall; 
Run the rattling pages o'er ; 
Scatter poems on the floor ; 
Turn the poet out of door. 



22 



A PRAYER IN SPRING 

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day; 
And give us not to think so far away 
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here 
All simply in the springing of the year. 

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white, 
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night; 
And make us happy in the happy bees, 
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees. 

And make us happy in the darting bird 
That suddenly above the bees is heard. 
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill, 
And off a blossom in mid air stands still. 

For this is love and nothing else is love, 
The which it is reserved for God above 
To sanctify to what far ends He will, 
But which it only needs that we fulfil. 



23 



FLOWER-GATHERING 

I left you in the morning, 

And in the morning glow, 

You walked a way beside me 

To make me sad to go. 

Do you know me in the gloaming, 

Gaunt and dusty grey with roaming? 

Are you dumb because you know me not, 

Or dumb because you know? 

All for me ? And not a question 

For the faded flowers gay 

That could take me from beside you 

For the ages of a day? 

They are yours, and be the measure 

Of their worth for you to treasure, 

The measure of the little while 

That I've been long away. 



24 



ROSE POGONIAS 

A saturated meadow, 

Sun-shaped and jewel-small, 
A circle scarcely wider 

Than the trees around were tall ; 
Where winds were quite excluded, 

And the air was stifling sweet 
With the breath of many flowers, — 

A temple of the heat. 

There we bowed us in the burning, 

As the sun's right worship is, 
To pick where none could miss them 

A thousand orchises; 
For though the grass was scattered, 

Yet every second spear 
Seemed tipped with wings of color, 

That tinged the atmosphere. 

We raised a simple prayer 

Before we left the spot, 
That in the general mowing 

That place might be forgot; 

25 



26 A BOY'S WILL 

Or if not all so favoured, 
Obtain such grace of hours, 

That none should mow the grass there 
While so confused with flowers. 



ASKING FOR ROSES 

A house that lacks, seemingly, mistress and 

master, 

With doors that none but the wind ever 

closes, 

Its floor all littered with glass and with plaster; 

It stands in a garden of old-fashioned roses. 

I pass by that way in the gloaming with Mary ; 

1 1 wonder,' I say, ' who the owner of those 
is. 
' Oh, no one you know,' she answers me airy, 

' But one we must ask if we want any roses.' 

So we must join hands in the dew coming 
coldly 
There in the hush of the wood that reposes, 
And turn and go up to the open door boldly, 
And knock to the echoes as beggars for 
roses. 

27 



28 A BOY'S WILL 

' Pray, are you within there, Mistress Who- 
were-you ? ' 
'Tis Mary that speaks and our errand dis- 
closes. 
' Pray, are you within there ? Bestir you, be- 
stir you ! 
'Tis summer again; there's two come for 
roses. 

'A word with you, that of the singer recall- 
ing— 
Old Herrick: a saying that every maid 
knows is 
A flower unplucked is but left to the falling, 
And nothing is gained by not gathering 
roses.' 

We do not loosen our hands' intertwining 
(Not caring so very much what she sup- 
poses), 
There when she comes on us mistily shining 
And grants us by silence the boon of her 
roses. 



WAITING 

AFIELD AT DUSK 

What things for dream there are when 

spectre-like, 
Moving among tall haycocks lightly piled, 
I enter alone upon the stubble field, 
From which the laborers' voices late have died, 
And in the antiphony of afterglow 
And rising full moon, sit me down 
Upon the full moon's side of the first haycock 
And lose myself amid so many alike. 

I dream upon the opposing lights of the hour, 
Preventing shadow until the moon prevail ; 
I dream upon the night-hawks peopling heaven, 
Each circling each with vague unearthly cry, 
Or plunging headlong with fierce twang afar; 
And on the bat's mute antics, who would seem 
Dimly to have made out my secret place, 
Only to lose it when he pirouettes, 
And seek it endlessly with purblind haste ; 
29 



30 A BOY'S WILL 

On the last swallow's sweep; and on the rasp 
In the abyss of odor and rustle at my back, 
That, silenced by my advent, finds once more, 
After an interval, his instrument, 
And tries once — twice — and thrice if I be 

there ; 
And on the worn book of old-golden song 
I brought not here to read, it seems, but hold 
And freshen in this air of withering sweetness; 
But on the memory of one absent most, 
For whom these lines when they shall greet 

her eye. 



IN A VALE 

When I was young, we dwelt in a vale 

By a misty fen that rang all night, 
And thus it was the maidens pale 
I knew so well, whose garments trail 
Across the reeds to a window light. 

The fen had every kind of bloom, 

And for every kind there was a face, 
And a voice that has sounded in my room 
Across the sill from the outer gloom. 
Each came singly unto her place, 

But all came every night with the mist ; 

And often they brought so much to say 
Of things of moment to which, they wist, 
One so lonely was fain to list, 

That the stars were almost faded away 

Before the last went, heavy with dew, 
Back to the place from which she came- 

3i 



32 A BOY'S WILL 

Where the bird was before it flew, 
Where the flower was before it grew, 

Where bird and flower were one and the 
same. 

And thus it is I know so well 

Why the flower has odor, the bird has song. 
You have only to ask me, and I can tell. 
No, not vainly there did I dwell, 

Nor vainly listen all the night long. 



A DREAM PANG 

I had withdrawn in forest, and my song 
Was swallowed up in leaves that blew alway; 
And to the forest edge you came one day 
(This was my dream) and looked and pon- 
dered long, 

But did not enter, though the wish was strong : 
You shook your pensive head as who should 
say, 

I I dare not — too far in his footsteps stray — 
He must seek me would he undo the wrong. 

Not far, but near, I stood and saw it all 
Behind low boughs the trees let down outside; 
And the sweet pang it cost me not to call 
And tell you that I saw does still abide. 
But 'tis not true that thus I dwelt aloof, 
For the wood wakes, and you are here for 
proof. 



33 



IN NEGLECT 

They leave us so to the way we took, 

As two in whom they were proved mistaken, 
That we sit sometimes in the wayside nook, 
With mischievous, vagrant, seraphic look, 
And try if we cannot feel forsaken. 



34 



THE VANTAGE POINT 

If tired of trees I seek again mankind, 

Well I know where to hie me — in the dawn, 
To a slope where the cattle keep the lawn. 

There amid lolling juniper reclined, 

Myself unseen, I see in white defined 

Far off the homes of men, and farther still, 
The graves of men on an opposing hill, 

Living or dead, whichever are to mind. 

And if by noon I have too much of these, 
I have but to turn on my arm, and lo, 
The sun-burned hillside sets my face aglow, 

My breathing shakes the bluet like a breeze, 
I smell the earth, I smell the bruised plant, 
I look into the crater of the ant. 



35 



MOWING 

There was never a sound beside the wood but 

one, 
And that was my long scythe whispering to 

the ground. 
What was it it whispered? I knew not well 

myself; 
Perhaps it was something about the heat of 

the sun, 
Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound — 
And that was why it whispered and did not 

speak. 
It was no dream of the gift of idle hours, 
Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf: 
Anything more than the truth would have 

seemed too weak 
To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows, 
Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers 
(Pale orchises), and scared a bright green 

snake. 
The fact is the sweetest dream that labor 

knows. 
My long scythe whispered and left the hay to 

make. 

36 



GOING FOR WATER 

The well was dry beside the door, 
And so we went with pail and can 

Across the fields behind the house 
To seek the brook if still it ran; 

Not loth to have excuse to go, 
Because the autumn eve was fair 

(Though chill), because the fields were ours, 
And by the brook our woods were there. 

We ran as if to meet the moon 

That slowly dawned behind the trees, 

The barren boughs without the leaves, 
Without the birds, without the breeze. 

But once within the wood, we paused 
Like gnomes that hid us from the moon, 

Ready to run to hiding new 

With laughter when she found us soon. 

37 



38 A BOY'S WILL 

Each laid on other a staying hand 
To listen ere we dared to look, 

And in the hush we joined to make 

We heard, we knew we heard the brook. 

A note as from a single place, 
A slender tinkling fall that made 

Now drops that floated on the pool 
Like pearls, and now a silver blade. 



REVELATION 

We make ourselves a place apart 

Behind light words that tease and flout, 

But oh, the agitated heart 

Till someone find us really out. 

'Tis pity if the case require 

(Or so we say) that in the end 
We speak the literal to inspire 

The understanding of a friend. 

But so with all, from babes that play 

At hide-and-seek to God afar, 
So all who hide too well away 

Must speak and tell us where they are. 



39 



THE TRIAL BY EXISTENCE 

Even the bravest that are slain 

Shall not dissemble their surprise 
On waking to find valor reign, 

Even as on earth, in paradise ; 
And where they sought without the sword 

Wide fields of asphodel fore'er, 
[To find that the utmost reward 

Of daring should be still to dare. 

The light of heaven falls whole and white 

And is not shattered into dyes, 
The light for ever is morning light ; 

The hills are verdured pasture-wise; 
The angel hosts with freshness go, 

And seek with laughter what to brave ;- 
And binding all is the hushed snow 

Of the far-distant breaking wave. 

And from a cliff-top is proclaimed 
The gathering of the souls for birth, 
40 



THE TRIAL BY EXISTENCE 41 

The trial by existence named, 

The obscuration upon earth. 
And the slant spirits trooping by 

In streams and cross- and counter-streams 
Can but give ear to that sweet cry 

For its suggestion of what dreams ! 



And the more loitering are turned 

To view once more the sacrifice 
Of those who for some good discerned 

Will gladly give up paradise. 
And a white shimmering concourse rolls 

Toward the throne to witness there 
The speeding of devoted souls 

Which God makes his especial care. 



And none are taken but who will, 

Having first heard the life read out 
That opens earthward, good and ill, 

Beyond the shadow of a doubt; 
And very beautifully God limns, 

And tenderly, life's little dream, 
But naught extenuates or dims, 

Setting the thing that is supreme. 



42 A BOY'S WILL 

Nor is there wanting in the press 

Some spirit to stand simply forth, 
Heroic in its nakedness, 

Against the uttermost of earth. 
The tale of earth's unhonored things 

Sounds nobler there than 'neath the sun; 
And the mind whirls and the heart sings, 

And a shout greets the daring one. 

But always God speaks at the end : 

' One thought in agony of strife 
The bravest would have by for friend, 

The memory that he chose the life; 
But the pure fate to which you go 

Admits no memory of choice, 
Or the woe were not earthly woe 

To which you give the assenting voice.' 

And so the choice must be again, 

But the last choice is still the same; 
And the awe passes wonder then, 

And a hush falls for all acclaim. 
And God has taken a flower of gold 

And broken it, and used therefrom 
The mystic link to bind and hold 

Spirit to matter till death come. 



THE TRIAL BY EXISTENCE 43 

'Tis of the essence of life here, 

Though we choose greatly, still to lack 
The lasting memory at all clear, 

That life has for us on the wrack 
Nothing but what we somehow chose ; 

Thus are we wholly stripped of pride 
In the pain that has but one close, 

Bearing it crushed and mystified. 



IN EQUAL SACRIFICE 

Thus of old the Douglas did : 

He left his land as he was bid 

With the royal heart of Robert the Bruce 

In a golden case with a golden lid, 

To carry the same to the Holy Land ; 
By which we see and understand 
That that was the place to carry a heart 
At loyalty and love's command, 

And that was the case to carry it in. 
The Douglas had not far to win 
Before he came to the land of Spain, 
Where long a holy war had been 

Against the too-victorious Moor; 
And there his courage could not endure 
Not to strike a blow for God 
Before he made his errand sure. 

i 44 



IN EQUAL SACRIFICE 45 

And ever it was intended so, 

That a man for God should strike a blow, 

No matter the heart he has in charge 

For the Holy Land where hearts should go. 



But when in battle the foe were met, 
The Douglas found him sore beset, 
With only strength of the fighting arm 
For one more battle passage yet — 

And that as vain to save the day 
As bring his body safe away — 
Only a signal deed to do 
And a last sounding word to say. 

The heart he wore in a golden chain 
He swung and flung forth into the plain, 
And followed it crying ' Heart or death 1 ' 
And fighting over it perished fain. 

So may another do of right, 
Give a heart to the hopeless fight, 
The more of right the more he loves; 
So may another redouble might 



46 A BOY'S WILL 

For a few swift gleams of the angry brand, 

Scorning greatly not to demand 

In equal sacrifice with his 

The heart he bore to the Holy Land. 



THE TUFT OF FLOWERS 

I went to turn the grass once after one 
Who mowed it in the dew before the sun. 

The dew was gone that made his blade so keen 
Before I came to view the levelled scene. 

I looked for him behind an isle of trees; 
I listened for his whetstone on the breeze. 

But he had gone his way, the grass all mown, 
And I must be, as he had been, — alone, 

1 As all must be,' I said within my heart, 
' Whether they work together or apart.' 

But as I said it, swift there passed me by 
On noiseless wing a 'wildered butterfly, 

Seeking with memories grown dim o'er night 
Some resting flower of yesterday's delight. 

47 



48 A BOY'S WILL 

And once I marked his flight go round and 

round, 
As where some flower lay withering on the 

ground. 

And then he flew as far as eye could see, 
And then on tremulous wing came back to me. 

I thought of questions that have no reply, 
And would have turned to toss the grass to dry ; 

But he turned first, and led my eye to look 
At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook, 

A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had 

spared 
Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared. 

I left my place to know them by their name, 
Finding them butterfly weed when I came. 

The mower in the dew had loved them thus, 
By leaving them to flourish, not for us, 

Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him. 
But from sheer morning gladness at the brim. 



THE TUFT OF FLOWERS 49 

The butterfly and I had lit upon, 
Nevertheless, a message from the dawn, 

That made me hear the wakening birds 

around, 
And hear his long scythe whispering to the 

ground, 

And feel a spirit kindred to my own; 

So that henceforth I worked no more alone; 

But glad with him, I worked as with his aid, 
And weary, sought at noon with him the shade ; 

And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly 

speech 
With one whose thought I had not hoped to 

reach. 

* Men work together/ I told him from the 

heart, 
1 Whether they work together or apart.' 



SPOILS OF THE DEAD 

Two fairies it was 
On a still summer day 

Came forth in the woods 
With the flowers to play. 

The flowers they plucked 
They cast on the ground 

For others, and those 

For still others they found. 

Flower-guided it was 

That they came as they ran 
On something that lay 

In the shape of a man. 

The snow must have made 

The feathery bed 
When this one fell 

On the sleep of the dead. 
50 



SPOILS OF THE DEAD 51 

But the snow was gone 

A long time ago, 
And the body he wore 

Nigh gone with the snow. 

The fairies drew near 

And keenly espied 
A ring on his hand 

And a chain at his side. 

They knelt in the leaves 

And eerily played 
With the glittering things, 

And were not afraid. 

And when they went home 

To hide in their burrow, 
They took them along 

To play with to-morrow. 

When you came on death, 

Did you not come flower-guided 

Like the elves in the wood? 
I remember that I did. 

But I recognised death 

With sorrow and dread, 
And I hated and hate 

The spoils of the dead. 



PAN WITH US 

Pan came out of the woods one day, — 
His skin and his hair and his eyes were gray, 
The gray of the moss of walls were they, — 
And stood in the sun and looked his fill 
At wooded valley and wooded hill. 

He stood in the zephyr, pipes in hand, 
On a height of naked pasture land ; 
In all the country he did command 

He saw no smoke and he saw no roof. 

That was well ! and he stamped a hoof. 

His heart knew peace, for none came here 
To this lean feeding save once a year 
Someone to salt the half-wild steer, 

Or homespun children with clicking pails 
Who see so little they tell no tales. 

He tossed his pipes, too hard to teach 

A new-world song, far out of reach, 

For a sylvan sign that the blue jay's screech 

52 



PAN WITH US 53 

And the whimper of hawks beside the sun 
Were music enough for him, for one. 

Times were changed from what they were : 
Such pipes kept less of power to stir 
The fruited bough of the juniper 

And the fragile bluets clustered there 
Than the merest aimless breath of air. 

They were pipes of pagan mirth, 

And the world had found new terms of worth. 

He laid him down on the sun-burned earth 
And ravelled a flower and looked away — 
Play ? Play ? — What should he play ? 



THE DEMIURGE'S LAUGH 

It was far in the sameness of the wood; 

I was running with joy on the Demon's trail, 
Though I knew what I hunted was no true god. 

It was just as the light was beginning to fail 
That I suddenly heard — all I needed to hear: 
It has lasted me many and many a year. 

The sound was behind me instead of before, 
A sleepy sound, but mocking half, 

As of one who utterly couldn't care. 

The Demon arose from his wallow to laugh, 

Brushing the dirt from his eye as he went ; 

And well I knew what the Demon meant. 

I shall not forget how his laugh rang out. 

I felt as a fool to have been so caught, 
And checked my steps to make pretence 

It was something among the leaves I sought 
(Though doubtful whether he stayed to see). 
Thereafter I sat me against a tree. 
54 



NOW CLOSE THE WINDOWS 

Now close the windows and hush all the fields; 

If the trees must, let them silently toss; 
No bird is singing now, and if there is, 

Be it my loss. 

It will be long ere the marshes resume, 
It will be long ere the earliest bird : 

So close the windows and not hear the wind, 
But see all wind-stirred. 



55 



A LINE-STORM SONG 

The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift, 

The road is forlorn all day, 
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift, 

And the hoof-prints vanish away. 
The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee, 

Expend their bloom in vain. 
Come over the hills and far with me, 

And be my love in the rain. 

The birds have less to say for themselves 

In the wood-world's torn despair 
Than now these numberless years the elves, 

Although they are no less there: 
All song of the woods is crushed like some 

Wild, easily shattered rose. 
Come, be my love in the wet woods; come, 

Where the boughs rain when it blows. 

There is the gale to urge behind 
And bruit our singing down, 
56 



A LINE-STORM SONG 57 

And the shallow waters aflutter with wind 
From which to gather your gown. 

What matter if we go clear to the west, 
And come not through dry-shod? 

For wilding brooch shall wet your breast 
The rain-fresh goldenrod. 

Oh, never this whelming east wind swells 

But it seems like the sea's return 
To the ancient lands where it left the shells 

Before the age of the fern; 
And it seems like the time when after doubt 

Our love came back amain. 
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout 

And be my love in the rain. 



OCTOBER 

O hushed October morning mild, 
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall; 
To-morrow's wind, if it be wild, 
Should waste them all. 
The crows above the forest call ; 
To-morrow they may form and go. 
O hushed October morning mild, 
Begin the hours of this day slow, 
Make the day seem to us less brief. 
Hearts not averse to being beguiled, 
Beguile us in the way you know; 
Release one leaf at break of day; 
At noon release another leaf; 
One from our trees, one far away; 
Retard the sun with gentle mist; 
Enchant the land with amethyst. 
Slow, slow! 

For the grapes' sake, if they were all, 
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost, 
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost — 
For the grapes' sake along the wall. 
58 



MY BUTTERFLY 

Thine emulous fond flowers are dead, too, 

And the daft sun-assaulter, he 

That frighted thee so oft, is fled or dead: 

Save only me 

(Nor is it sad to thee!) 

Save only me 

There is none left to mourn thee in the fields. 



The gray grass is not dappled with the snow; 

Its two banks have not shut upon the river; 

But it is long ago — 

It seems forever — 

Since first I saw thee glance, 

With all the dazzling other ones, 

In airy dalliance, 

Precipitate in love, 

Tossed, tangled, whirled and whirled above, 

Like a limp rose-wreath in a fairy dance. 

59 



60 A BOY'S WILL 

When that was, the soft mist 

Of my regret hung not on all the land, 

And I was glad for thee, 

And glad for me, I wist. 

Thou didst not know, who tottered, wander- 
ing on high, 

That fate had made thee for the pleasure of the 
wind, 

With those great careless wings, 

Nor yet did I. 

And there were other things: 

It seemed God let thee flutter from his gentle 

clasp : 
Then fearful he had let thee win 
Too far beyond him to be gathered in, 
Snatched thee, o'er eager, with ungentle grasp. 

Ah ! I remember me 

How once conspiracy was rife 

Against my life — 

The languor of it and the dreaming fond ; 

Surging, the grasses dizzied me of thought, 

The breeze three odors brought, 

And a gem-flower waved in a wand ! 



MY BUTTERFLY 61 

Then when I was distraught 

And could not speak, 

Sidelong, full on my cheek, 

What should that reckless zephyr fling 

But the wild touch of thy dye-dusty wing I 

I found that wing broken to-day ! 
For thou art dead, I said, 
And the strange birds say, 
I found it with the withered leaves 
Under the eaves. 



RELUCTANCE 

Out through the fields and the woods 
And over the walls I have wended; 

I have climbed the hills of view 

And looked at the world, and descended; 

I have come by the highway home, 
And lo, it is ended. 

The leaves are all dead on the ground, 
Save those that the oak is keeping 

To ravel them one by one 

And let them go scraping and creeping 

Out over the crusted snow, 
When others are sleeping. 

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still, 
No longer blown hither and thither; 

The last lone aster is gone; 

The flowers of the wich-hazel wither ; 

The heart is still aching to seek:, 
But the feet question 'Whither?' 
62 



RELUCTANCE 63 



Ah, when to the heart of man 
Was it ever less than a treason 

To go with the drift of things, 
To yield with a grace to reason, 

And bow and accept the end 
Of a love or a season? 



Certain of these poems are reprinted by courteous 
permission from : — The Forum, The Independent, The 
Companion. 



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